


Little Piece of Heaven

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Series: Little Piece of Heaven [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Gadreel, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The incident with Gadreel and Dean leaves him more than just broken. Sam moves out of the bunker in search of his little piece of heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Piece of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

The bunker feels like a preserved crime scene. While Sam’s room remained more reminiscent to an office than a bedroom, it carries the stench of violation on the walls and the bedsheets. Fingers not controlled by him touched these walls and looked at them. A body not controlled by him laid in these bedsheets. Even his computer makes a taste sour and foul form on his tongue, feeling each item in the room lose value at the thought that something tainted it. His private space was invaded upon and Sam spends his nights sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms. 

Showers are always scalding hot. Waiting till his skin is raw with his furious scrubbing, demanding old skin to rip off and new to build. Sam rummages through his older clothes and wears them. Old t-shirts from Stanford. Shirts not fit for this kind of chilled weather. He even sacrifices what little money he has in his pocket to buy new clothes. 

Castiel is respectful and kind. He’s learned to make him a cup of coffee the way he likes it and will set it out for him each morning. Sam wonders how many conversations took place over a cup of coffee between Gadreel and Dean. But the promise of caffeine is too great and he drinks it anyways. Sleeping and what bellies underneath it terrifies him.

No matter how hard he tries to make himself comfortable in the bunker, he can’t. It’s stifling. A cage. With Dean so far chasing the angel that still haunts his innards like a phantom, Sam is left alone. He doesn’t want to talk to Castiel about how he feels, not because he doesn’t want to but he doesn’t know how without that feeling there’s a scream about to push out of his gullet. He can still feel the metal pushing into his skull, searing hot and twisting, the sensation never failing to make his nose register sulfur.

It’s four in the morning, three days in the bunker, does he decide he has to leave. He can’t be here. Sam locks himself in the bathroom with a sharpie, tracing symbols across his arms and chest. His tattoo is mauled and useless, and all he can do is draw in the wet ink a substitute. Enochian sigils dance across the curve of his bicep and into the divot of his elbow, daring someone like Castiel to find him. With clothes packed, emergency funds plucked at and raiding the pantry, he leaves around six. Sam wonders if Castiel knows he’s leaving. 

Sam doesn’t take Castiel’s borrowed car. He doesn’t take his phone. He’s not planning on being found. Sam keeps on walking east until he finds a parked car, toying with the locks until it’s free. He begins his long road trip to Flagstaff, itching to be close to a spot that once made him feel at ease — preserved with comfort. His little piece of Heaven. 

Sam knows not to pull into gas stations with the car. He’ll park the car and walk the mile to the gas station, filling the canister and walking a mile back. He knows to ditch a car whenever he is close to crossing a state. He knows not to use old and familiar names at motels that can be tracked by his brother. He only stops when his body cramps but he doesn’t sleep. He stares at the motel walls and the television, feeling disconnected. He knows to reapply the ink on his body, not willing to fork over his money for a tattoo. There’s no point in getting something permanent when he won’t be lasting long. 

It takes him three days to enter Arizona and it’s a swell of relief. He feels far away. All that there is is the wall of pine trees framing the road, mountains peeking with snow. Despite all the relief, he finds himself pulling over and stumbling out of the car, heaving in the frigid air. He finds himself scratching at his scalp and tugging on his hair, sitting beside the car and asking in a helpless panic _why is everything so fucked up why is everything so fucked up why is everything so fucked why is everything so fucked up._ Sam digs his fingers into his eyes, the gouging only ceasing when color and tears bloom like fireworks before his vision. Sam sits with his conflict, relieved to be so close to this spot and, yet, so lost. 

Sam can’t decipher himself and it’s a lonely feeling. It’s one thing for others not to understand you, but for yourself to incapable of understanding? The hunter gives a wet and broken sound that may have been a laugh, thinking idly that this may be another existential crisis. He beats himself over it in the car as he continues driving, mocking his own feelings under his breath until he accepts another drink of self-loathing. 

The cabin is still there. The front has been redone since he last came here and a few trees cut down. It looks smaller than he last remembered but the sight of an overstuffed mailbox puts him at ease. He can crash here. Trudging towards the cabin with his bag tossed over his shoulder, he spends a few minutes searching for the spare key until he finds it under a potted plant that is nothing but dry soil. 

It’s still the same. Even the same bed frame from all those years ago. Sam spends the day drawing sigils on the walls behind hanging art pieces and curtains. It’s easy to push away that tremor of panic when his mind is focused on a mundane task. It’s when the task is finished is he left with his thoughts, swirling and ugly, picking him open. They remind him that he puts more lives at jeopardy than save them. That he ruined his relationship with his own brother. That there is a reason why Castiel never seems to answer his prayers back than. That there is a reason why Charlie is more receptive with Dean than him. There is a reason why every attempt to get close to someone leads to tragedy or death, often times, both. There is a reason why everything whispers out to him that he’s broken. 

Sam rubs at his lips with his knuckles until he’s pressing them against his teeth. He wants… He wants to talk about this. To tell someone that he feels so broken and looking in the mirror makes him sick. He can’t stand himself. Can’t stand the ugly thing that stares back at him. That he doesn’t want to do this anymore. He just wants to sleep and never wake up, but he can’t quite stomach those final steps just yet. So he tells someone. Hands clasped and fingers intertwined, he tells the only being he knows who will listen and not berate him for feeling so low. 

“You are a hard one to find, Sam,” something comments gently to his right, “Harder than most humans. I don’t suppose you’d let me in?”

Sam opens his eyes and turns to his right, staring at the empty spot beside him on the bed. Spinning his head to the door, it’s a mad race of limbs trying to beat the other to the finish line, stumbling towards the entrance. Fingers curl around the metal and he pauses. _Is this what I want?_ Licking the bottom of his teeth, he gives a nod. Yes. God, yes. Pulling the door open, there’s frostbitten eyes staring at him. 

“The mark on the inside of your elbow is smeared,” the Devil addresses in explanation and Sam doesn’t bother looking at his arm. He can only stare, not sure if he’s hallucinating this from lack of sleep or if this is real. “I heard you, Sam,” he adds after a moment and Sam smiles slightly, finding the familiar pinpricks of light orbiting inside and around the archangel’s pupils. Trapped solar systems and hurricanes of stars reaching out for him, a familiar pull on his patched-up soul. 

The archangel stiffens when there are arms pulling him in, tight and warm against a blizzard-kissed body. It takes a moment of registration before he relaxes, arms curling around Sam and stroking his back. There’s something wet running across Lucifer’s neck, Sam’s face buried into his skin, body trembling against him. The blond gives a soothing hum, jaw scraping against the hunter’s ear. Lips twist into a semblance of a smile before repeating old lines, “Thanks to you, I walk the earth. I want to give you a gift. I want to give you everything.”

Sam gives a choked sound against his neck and can feel a smile pressed against his skin. He nods, a hoarse ‘please’ slipping out. Sam eventually untangles himself from the Devil, letting him come inside before shutting the door. He looks the same, just like in that dream years ago, save for the windblown look and chaos consisting of his hair. 

It’s like the reuniting of old souls, a warmth of familiarity settling in the room. Sam finds himself settled before the fireplace, fire crackling and a blanket pulled around him. It feels so nice to be near someone. Feels so good to be by someone who is ready to give him words of comfort, validate his feelings and let him vent. He feels safe. He feels safe with himself, such a rare feeling.

Lucifer sits next to him, running a cold finger across his palm, tracing each line. Each line holds affectionate words, praise over his actions and heart. They stay there for hours, Sam watching the flames that never seem to die down and the lullaby of gratitude leaving the Devil’s lips. Lucifer pulls his hand to his mouth and kisses the middle of it before moving to Sam’s other side. He takes his other hand and begins to trace each line. Each line a compliment. Each line pushing a smile onto Sam’s lips. 

He thinks that maybe… Maybe he’ll stay a bit longer. His little piece of Heaven is starting to feel complete.


End file.
